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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887992">Glitter and Noise</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaelumLapis/pseuds/CaelumLapis'>CaelumLapis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Smallville RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:00:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,842</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887992</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaelumLapis/pseuds/CaelumLapis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They live in the same world of glitter and noise.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tom Welling/Jamie White</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Glitter and Noise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer is, I don’t own their likenesses or them. This story contains fictionalized versions of actual people, doing fictional things. As such, if that's not your style, please find your entertainment elsewhere.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="has-text-align-justify">It rains a lot in Vancouver. It’s raining this morning.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He used to mention that when she called. <em>Hi, honey. I love you. It’s raining.</em>  It has gone from the headline in conversations to a mere footnote, but the rain is consistent, bringing with it a chill that lingers on the surface of his skin. He still mentioned it, just to hear her laugh. He loves the sound of her laugh. He misses it.  </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Soft noises of rain against the window, and there’s something about a quiet morning that makes you sleepy, thoughtful, and nostalgic. He has the day off, and a surprising <em>lack </em>of things to do. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He rolls out of bed and studies himself in the bathroom mirror for a few minutes. His reflection has no helpful ideas. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">The sleepy haze follows him into the kitchen. Within moments, the coffeemaker is gurgling persistently at him. He’s hoping he’ll find a suggestion at the bottom of a cup of liquid dark and strong enough to pave the driveway. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Halfway into the cup, he realizes that he’s had the right idea since he woke up. He slouches into that, warming to it while breathing in the coffee smell.  The newspaper crumples under his arm and he looks down at it. He’s read the headlines, the high notes, and the weather. He can see a hint of a comic strip on one of the back pages, something with Garfield, maybe… or that other cat. The one that pals around with the old man. Heathcliff. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">No appointments, no interviews, no calls. He could call his agent. He <em>should </em>call his agent. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He’s not going to.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">The rain pauses for a moment, less of a steady drone and more of a careful whisper. The front page of the paper has something about the pope. He flips the page, curling it into itself. The second page is far less exciting, but Heathcliff is partially visible below it. He wonders if this one involves a dog. It’s vaguely funny in that the punch line is obscured and he’s coming up with his own. He could look, but that would be disappointing. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">There’s no way the joke can live up to the hype. Not now. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">It’s raining hard again when he walks the dog, big wet drops splashing on his face and jacket. The air smells clean, sharp and bright where it touches his skin. His phone buzzes in his pocket, buried under layers of clothing. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He ignores it.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Water drips from his hair, landing with a splatter on the newspaper. He still hasn’t looked at the comic. His dog rolls over and snores into the door, toenails drumming a brief harmony over the wood. He grins at that, wonders again if the comic has a dog in it. It really should. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He reads the Lifestyles section instead of finding out. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">His phone has two messages when he checks it, one from his agent and one from Mike. His agent wants him to look at a script, something about a remake of an old horror movie. A classic. It could be huge. He nods along. It could be. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He doesn’t call back.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Older message is from Mike, a little manic and with background noise. Music, a girl’s laugh. It makes him think of Jamie. Mike’s laughing, saying something indistinct and garbled, working on his next big story between shots on set.  It’ll be another one with gestures and eyebrows, and he’ll be listening because it’s one of Mike’s stories. The second girl’s laugh makes him grin, and the message ends with another burst of static.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He almost calls back, but he’s not ready to be one of Mike’s stories. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">His agent is excited that he’s interested in the part. He agrees with all the selling points, makes the right attentive noises. He jots down audition notes on the newspaper, right above Heathcliff. He still doesn’t know the punchline.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">The sun is lowering slowly over the city outside his window, sliding between sullen clouds. His dog whines, paws at the door. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He’ll look later.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">The greeting on her voicemail sounds the same. He waits for the beep, rustling the newspaper between his fingers. The rain picks up against the windows, rhythmic and soothing. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He read the punchline and it didn’t live up to the hype. No dog.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">It beeps. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Hi, honey,” he starts, and pauses for a fraction of a second. She doesn’t pick up. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“I have an audition. It’s a movie, not TV.” He wonders what she’s thinking about. “It’s raining,” he adds, and laughs a little. Quick and short. There’s a click as she picks up. She’s quiet for a second, and he hears her breathe. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Hi,” she says, finally. It’s slow and quiet, like the rain. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Hey,” he answers. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">She’s silent again, and he doesn’t talk just to hear the sound. He has the rain for that, and he wonders if she can hear it. He’d like to think that she can. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">When she talks again, it’s not as much goodbye as it is a steady introduction to it. He knows that, has known that since he rolled out of bed and into morning. She’s saying it as carefully as she can and there’s only so much longer that he can pretend he isn’t hearing it.  The call ends as the others have, long pauses between short sentences. The dial tone is almost friendly. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">It’s chilly without the sun. He tears his note from the newspaper, tacks it to the fridge with a magnet. The punchline’s funny, just not as funny without a dog. He wonders if the movie will be big, like his agent promised.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He’s almost asleep when his phone buzzes and he rolls away from it, pulling the pillow over his head. The second insistent buzz and he’s reaching back toward it, yanking it under the pillow with him. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“What?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">It’s Mike and he has a story. They rarely back down from the promises Mike’s voice is making. He rolls over to his back, shoving the pillow under his head. There were two girls, and it was <em>amazing</em>, Mike’s saying. He can almost see Mike’s hands, cupping the air a few inches from his chest. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Hey, Mike?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“And <em>then</em>, she–yeah?”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“It’s raining.”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Mike laughs, the surprised kind of laugh that didn’t know it was coming until it arrived. “Yeah, it does that here.” </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">It’s not the same, but it works the same way. He wonders if it would ever be the same, and decides that it really doesn’t matter. Mike’s still talking, working the story now. “God, I think one of them was into yoga or something, she did this <em>thing</em>, with her…”</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He settles in and sinks into it, making an agreeable noise into the phone. The story becomes less words and more like the rain, a steady rise and fall of tone and cadence, pauses now and then for a rumble of laughter. He’s heard it before, but Mike makes it seem new every time he tells it. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">The movie does well enough. He’s learned not to pay attention to all of it, just to the parts that people declare important. He has more calls, more appointments and interviews now. He has a phone interview with a radio station, a guy with a smooth voice who laughs at his jokes. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He’s home now, and his coffee machine gurgles at him. His dog is snoring in the corner, paws twitching at dream animals.  </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">His agent calls him, excited about the numbers, the reviews. He listens, smiling at the audition note on his fridge in a helplessly cheerful kind of way. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">It’s raining.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He hasn’t called her, and she doesn’t call him. They said goodbye in the quiet after the flashy lights of the movie premiere. They didn’t explain the reasons, but he’s felt them for a long time. This place glitters, sometimes too brightly. He’s heard the stories, and now he has one of his own. There will be courts and paperwork at some point, but he’s not ready to make it official. He still misses her laugh. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He tells Mike, over a beer at a bar that reeks of ordinary life and all its kinetic energy. It was close, and he remembers that smell from older days. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“I’m sorry, Tommy.” He knows the feeling, and he nods agreement. The beer is bitter at the back of his throat. He keeps pushing it there, sending it down his throat. The bitter lingers. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Mike doesn’t say much, sucks on a longneck and puts a warm hand on the back of his neck. It’s too soon and too close, but he doesn’t ask him to move it. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He listens to the promises of distractions that Mike can introduce him to, but Mike’s hand is telling different stories into the back of his neck, opening and closing slowly, working out the knot.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He can see where this will go in an odd rush of warmth and clarity. Mike’s talking, telling him this shit happens, and he’s got better things to work on, he’s famous. He turns his face toward him, the bar is darker and quiet now. Mike’s breath is loud between them, and his voice is suddenly gone. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Tom turns back to the beer.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He’s half asleep when his dog shoves a cold, wet nose into the palm of his hand. He lets it linger there for a second, ruffling the fur around it. Happy whimpers answer him, along with insistent tugs. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">It’s damp and cold outside, and he waits while listening to wet snuffling noises in the bushes. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Inside the chill lingers on his skin and he rubs his arms to the sounds of toenails clicking rapidly across the floor, his dog dashing into the living room and flopping down against the couch. There’s distant thunder as he heads back into his bedroom. The phone buzzes beside his bed, and he grabs for it in the dark, almost missing it. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Mmm?” It’s three am, and that’s as good as Mike will get for coherence. Mike’s laugh says he understands this. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">He signs more things than he can possibly remember, surrounded by sharp people in suits and ties. He can’t wait to leave, down the steps in a rush of rain and flashbulbs. He has no idea who told them, but he doesn’t answer the questions they pelt at him, just slides into a car and settles in as it screeches away from the curb.</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Over his shoulder, she’s walking into the same mess he just left. He doesn’t watch. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-center">~~~</p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">“Vultures,” Mike tells him, in the same bar with a longneck from the same family. He agrees, clinking his own against it. </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">Beer is still bitter in his throat, but he’s drinking it anyway. Mike’s hand rests on his shoulder this time, enough time and close enough. He’d tell him that, but Mike knows this. They live in the same world of glitter and noise.  </p>
<p class="has-text-align-justify">When he turns toward him, Mike stays there, and Tom doesn’t look back at his beer this time.</p>
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